“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “Was I making you uncomfortable? Because if I’d known I was making you feel bad, I would’ve realized it and stopped.”
Okay, that felt pointed.
“It’s fine,” I mutter awkwardly.
“No, really,” he says. “If I’d realized I was being a huge asshole, and making someone feel really badly for months and months and months, I would’ve thought to myself, Hey, maybe Ishouldn’tbe such an asshole—”
“Yeah, I got it,” I say, walking past him.
“What do I know, though?” he calls after me. “I’m just a dumb ol’ racing driver, only got two brain cells to rub together—”
“I said I got it!” I snap.
I hear him laughing as he heads the other way. What an ass.
I mean, he’s totally right, and that was kind of funny. But he’s still an ass.
I reach the end of the hall, and then it’s just me alone, standing in front of a closed door labeled “T. KEEPING.”
Fuck. Here we go.
I knock loudly, in case he’s got headphones on or something, then I stand there freaking out until the door swings open. And then I’m just standing there in front of him, suddenly feeling like I might burst into tears.
For one second, he looks completely shocked to see me, then whatever emotions he’s feeling vanish under a blank mask.
“Hey,” I blurt out.
Too loud. That was too loud.
I clear my throat and try again. “I mean, hey. Can I come in?”
His throat moves as he swallows. God, I’d like to put my mouth there. “Uh... yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
He moves aside, and I step past him. I swear I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, and I can definitely smell his soap, a faint peppermint scent.
I clear my throat and turn to face him. With the door closed behind him, there’s not much room for two people. It’s a smallspace, with a closet for his racing stuff, a padded bench, and a desk with a chair. I stand a few feet away from him, shifting from one foot to the other. I don’t know what to do with my arms. He’s looking right at me, but he’s got his media face on, completely unreadable.
I clear my throat again. “Congratulations on the championship,” I say. “I watched the last race the other week. I mean, I watched it before then, too. Or—well, not the whole thing, actually. I mean, I saw the end of it, so I knew you won, but I didn’t watch the whole race until the other week. That last pass on Mahoney was crazy. I thought the two of you were going to touch, like, five times. I was freaking out. But you didn’t touch. Obviously.”
Okay, I need to shut up about this now.
Travis nods slowly. “It was a good race.”
He’s using his most neutral voice, and it breaks my heart a little. I don’t want him to talk to me like this.
I swallow hard. “I wish I could’ve been there.”
He looks a little surprised by that, but still wary. “Mm.” It’s not really an answer, more like an acknowledgment that I spoke. He nods at my T-shirt. “Congrats on the Crosswire gig.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I look down at my shirt, as if I don’t know what it looks like. “Crazy, right?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You deserve it.”
I feel a sudden surge of desperation and impatience. I don’t want us to stand here like this, being polite to each other. I curl my hands into fists at my sides and dig my nails into my palms. Enough of this. It’s hardcore honesty time.
“I really miss you,” I blurt out. “Like—really, really miss you.”
He blinks. “What?”
